


A Storm Rolls In

by whiskyandwildflowers



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adherence to canon is whatever I want it to be, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hoverbike Riding, Keith (Voltron)'s Shack, Keith Pining, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non season 8 compliant, Post-Canon, Quick But Loving Handjobs, seriously a lot of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23807065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyandwildflowers/pseuds/whiskyandwildflowers
Summary: His love had rolled in a bit like one of these desert storms, fiercely and suddenly. Maybe it had always been there in the distance, but it wasn’t something he’d noticed until it was right on top of him, raining down and drowning him out, dangerous and all-consumingOr, Keith and Shiro ride out to Keith's desert shack and get caught in a storm.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78





	A Storm Rolls In

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little different than what I usually write! There are two wolves fighting inside me, one that likes humor/smut and the other that needs a couple thousand words of pining in Keith's spiral shack. The second wolf won today.

They ride out to the old shack on the hottest day of the summer. It’s the kind of day where you can practically hear the heat sizzle off the pavement, and there’s a crackle in the air that you can’t shake off. The dust blows up around them, red and hot and unyielding, as they sail their hoverbikes across the seemingly endless desert. 

Keith’s t-shirt sticks to his back as he rides, pushing harder and harder through the oppressive clouds of dust. They haven’t done this in so long, racing through the desert as far as their bikes can carry them, and soaring through the ceaseless blue sky with the heat pounding down on the backs of their necks and their hearts rattling with adrenaline.

Keith hasn’t even been here since—

It doesn’t matter any more.

Shiro starts to push ahead and Keith pumps the throttle, not letting him get any sort of edge. It’s always like this with them, this constant competitive _something_, and Keith’s blood soars through his veins as he pulls a sharp turn and swerves to catch Shiro’s attention and throw him off guard. They’re always so aware of each other, and Keith doesn’t like to let himself think about why. 

Since Keith is the only one who knows the way, he swings around back on course, the engines on Shiro’s bike noisily whirring beside him as he pushes his bike to regain his momentum.

They pull up at the little shack and it’s just as Keith remembers. It was home for so long, when home just meant a roof over his head. The meaning’s changed for him now, but the shack lives on, dusty and worn, like most of the memories trapped in it. 

Keith dismounts and shakes some of the dirt from his hair, running his hand through the sweaty strands. He’d forgotten how fucking hot it is out here, without shade except for the lone tree standing guard nearby, and the sun beating down relentlessly. 

“You cheated with that little move back there,” Shiro laughs as he gets off his hoverbike. A drop of sweat slides down his neck, and Keith has to look away. 

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh, his voice dry and rusty from all the dust. “Not my fault you can’t improvise. Also, wasn’t technically a race.”

“When is it not a race?” Shiro laughs. “And I can fucking improvise! I just didn’t know the route out here.” He walks over to Keith and nudges their shoulders together, the cloth sticking to their sweat soaked skin. “Jesus, it’s hot.”

“That’s the desert for you, fucking hot and dusty,” Keith says, failing to hold back a grin, and pulling his shirt away from his belly to unstick it a little, an exercise in futility if there ever was one. 

Shiro looks at Keith, something flitting across his face that Keith doesn’t catch, and Keith shifts his weight under the attention. 

“I’m glad we did this today, I needed it, you know?” Shiro replies after a beat, the words hanging in the air.

And of course Keth knows. He couldn’t forget a single detail about Shiro in a thousand fucking lifetimes. Everything from the curve of his eyelashes against his cheek, to his insane Garrison schedule that has been working him to the bone, is imprinted right on Keith’s soul, and it’s fucking killing him just a little. 

“Yeah, I know,” is all he says, grabbing a cooler from the back of his hoverbike while Shiro grabs a bag from the back of his. “I need to get inside away from all this fucking dust for a second.”

“Probably dusty in there too,” Shiro grins, and Keith flips him off as he makes his way into the shack. And Shiro’s right. As Keith pushes open the door, the hinges creaking with disuse, the dust shimmers in the air in the midday sunlight, disturbed for the first time in years. There’s a fine layer over everything, red sand covering the couch and the walls. Keith leaves footprints as he crosses the floor, the air squeezed in his lungs from the oppressive heat and the oppressive weight of being in here again. The cooler lands with a thud at his feet, the sound echoing through the tiny shack.

He hadn’t expected it to be this hard. This weird. This_ much_.

It had been the worst time in his life. The notes and pictures still tacked on the wall, faded now from the sun and curling at the edges, are a stark reminder of just how awful that had all been. Day after day, plotting coordinates and listening for any kind of signal on the radio. Lonely nights spent sleeping on his couch, eating beans right out of a can and trying so hard not to let his mind completely spiral away from him. Because Shiro was— 

Because Shiro had been—

“Hey.” Keith jumps as Shiro’s hand clasps his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard him coming in.

“Did I ever—did I ever, _ really _ thank you?” Shiro asks, his voice soft, but still pounding in Keith’s ears in the intense silence of the shack. He’s staring right at Keith’s notes again, drinking it all in. The last time they’d been here together, it’d been feverish with a million things happening. Now it’s just them, their breaths loud in the quiet.

“Probably a million times,” Keith says with a shrug.

“Well, thank you. Again. Always.”

“Any time.” Every time. 

Keith opens up the cooler and grabs two bottles of water, his fingers slipping against the condensation as he wordlessly tosses one to Shiro and cracks the top of the other, chugging most of it down in a few long pulls. 

Shiro pulls an old charcoal colored Garrison-issue sheet from his bag and lays it over the dusty couch, plopping down and taking a few deep swigs from his own water. 

It’s years and it’s milliseconds, that they’re in the cabin silently drinking water and lost in thought. There isn’t usually a lot of silence between them, their days mostly filled with inside jokes, words of encouragement, or frustrated cursing. But the levity from their ride is gone, replaced suddenly with this thick air of their shared mythology swirling around their heads. 

For Keith, this is the place where he had refused to deal with loss, the righteous denial clawing its way up his throat every day for a year, fueling a fire that burned for 365 days until Shiro’s return.

For Shiro, it means a homecoming, triumphant and overwhelming, with his own pain he often refuses to deal with.

Shiro breaks the silence. “Do you remember that night after your physics final? When we went for a ride—”

“And you fucking ran out of gas,” Keith laughs, the memory rushing back to him. A calm, clear night where they could see what felt like every star in the galaxy, riding the high of being finished with classes for another semester, and ribbing Shiro for not being prepared for probably the only time in his life.

“God, you had to tow me halfway back, and then we ended up sleeping by the edge of that weird pond,” Shiro says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. 

“We were idiots then, obviously,” Keith snorts, finishing off his water and crushing the bottle in his fist. 

Shiro cracks an eye open, his mouth turning up into a lopsided grin, and something swirls low in Keith’s gut. “I think we’re probably still idiots now.” Keith chucks the crushed up water bottle at him. 

Keith certainly feels like an idiot most of the time around Shiro anyway, struck stupid by his handsome face and the way everything feels just right with him. Yeah, the meaning of home has definitely changed for Keith. 

A sound like gravel being thrown against the shack draws Keith’s attention away from the way Shiro’s t-shirt still sticks to his skin, and the way his throat moves as he drinks more water.

He gets to his feet and goes to the porch, clocking the way the wind is whipping the sand around, dark clouds moving in quickly over the horizon.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath. “Hey, there’s a storm blowing in fast, we might be stuck here for a while.” The storms roll in suddenly here, blue skies one minute and nasty the next. The land is so flat that Keith can see where it’s already pouring hard in the distance, lightning splitting the sky.

Shiro makes his way out too. “Think we could ride it out?”

Keith grimaces. “Maybe, but these things move hard and fast, and you’re fucked if they catch up.” Shiro hums in agreement and takes a seat on the rickety bench on the porch, the wood creaking under his weight.

“It’s cool, how you can see out so far,” Shiro says as they watch the black clouds overtake the horizon. Keith’s heart lurches as he studies Shiro’s profile. It would be so easy, he thinks sometimes, to just lean over and maybe kiss him. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to say anything. He could just do it, and have that, and he could have everything he ever wanted. 

His love had rolled in a bit like one of these desert storms, fiercely and suddenly. Maybe it had always been there in the distance, but it wasn’t something he’d noticed until it was right on top of him, raining down and drowning him out, dangerous and all-consuming. Keith is overwhelmed by it all the time.

“Nickel for your thoughts,” Shiro laughs again, kicking at Keith’s sneaker gently.

“The expression is penny,” Keith groans. 

Shiro shrugs. “They phased that bad boy out ages ago, so your thoughts are worth more now. Lucky you.” 

“Ever think about how weird our lives have been?” Keith says, willing his words to stay steady. The rain falls hard around them, clattering against the rooftop and darkening the dirt with fat, explosive drops.

“All the time.”

Lightning cracks across the sky and thunder rumbles, and the air is sultry and wet, petrichor filling Keith’s lungs with every breath. 

Shiro gets up and jumps down off the porch, tilting his head back and letting the rain pelt down on him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Keith yells, getting ready to jump off the porch too. Because that’s what he does—jumps after Shiro. Any and every time. 

“Not scared of a little rain are you?” Shiro teases, his shirt going transparent and Keith’s tongue feeling thick in his mouth. 

Keith rolls his eyes. “I’m not fucking scared of anything.” A lie. He’s absolutely terrified.

“Shit like this really makes you feel alive.” And Keith agrees as he walks up to Shiro, feeling everything. 

The sound of the beat of the rain.

The taste of it on his tongue. 

The water cooling on his skin. 

The smell of the wet earth all around him.

The sight of Shiro, soaked and happy and breathless in the middle of a torrential downpour.

Like the lightning, Keith cracks. 

He slots their mouths together quickly and suddenly, their wet skin sliding together, swallowing Shiro’s surprised noise and leaning into the way Shiro’s hands grip into his t-shirt and fist into his hair. The wet metal of Shiro’s prosthetic glides against his cheek and he shudders, licking into Shiro’s mouth and pressing himself against Shiro as close as he can possibly get. Keith would crawl inside of him if he could manage. 

They jump apart at the sound of thunder, still close enough that they’re sharing the same air, panting against each other, soaked and feverish. 

“I’m sorry,” Keith starts.

“No—fuck, never apologize. Not to me, and never for that,” Shiro says, almost reverently. “I didn’t think you wanted this.”

Keith frowns. “I didn’t think _ you _ wanted this.” 

“I didn’t think I was allowed to have this.” And Keith’s heart cracks a little, because Shiro should have everything, and Keith would move mountains just to make sure he knew that. 

“You are. We are,” Keith says firmly, and then pauses. “Did we really just kiss in the rain like that?”

“We’re gross. A total cliche,” Shiro replies, pink around the edges and not looking sorry in the slightest. 

They stumble against each other into the shack, and Keith moves against Shiro urgently, not even caring that he cracks his head against the door frame. Shiro makes these desperate, aching little noises that Keith could never have imagined in his wildest dreams—of which there had been many. They’re even better than anything Keith could have come up with, his dick throbbing as he fights down every urge to absolutely swallow Shiro whole.

They strip off their wet clothes haphazardly, their skin cold from the rain, but running hot anyway, and every nerve ending in Keith’s body is crackling with intensity, electric and bright with everything he’s feeling. 

He moans into Shiro’s mouth as Shiro’s hands slide against his ribs and clutch at his biceps. They fall back onto the couch, rutting against each other on the blanket Shiro had brought, the springs digging into them at weird angles, but Keith wouldn’t have it any other way. Except—

“I’m not fucking you for the first time on this gross old couch,” Keith says bluntly, peering up at Shiro’s face where he’s pressed back against the cushions. Shiro laughs and nudges his face into Keith’s neck, kissing him there and then drawing back.

“Ok, ok of course not,” Shiro laughs, and starts to pull away. 

“I mean, we don’t have to _ stop _ stop, just—” 

Keith props himself up and pulls Shiro to his chest, sliding their cocks together in a way that is _ sofuckingmuch _. 

“I’ve got you,” Keith whispers, as he takes Shiro in hand, biting at his shoulder. As he comes, Shiro’s quiet, shuddering against Keith and breathing against his neck.

And when Shiro returns the favor and tips Keith over the edge, it feels like coming home.

Outside, the rain falls.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/whiskyandwflwrs) where it's always Shiro loving hours!


End file.
